Indulgence
by Girllovesrain
Summary: And at night, when the people outside the open window slowed and the painting on his wall was darkened by the thick black shadows cast by his body onto the wall, the thoughts would resurface. The early hours of the morning were always the worst: a mind weakened by sleep is always susceptible to the dark needs of the heart.


**I wrote a short piece for Lovino Vargas. Please tell me what you think!**

On the wall of his bedroom, opposite the bed, was a painting depicting a scene he remembered from his childhood, grass and leaves from trees and the sweet scent of rain left on the grass.

He laid back on his bed, battling the humid weather by lounging in his boxers, and with his arms propped comfortably under his head, he admired the painting in the night. A fan would blow onto his neck from the dresser table hugging the side of the bed, as he watched the painting, half expecting the wind in the grass to ripple in the paint, gouging deep into the canvas.

The light in the room was off as he watched the painting, a window open to the cool evening air letting in the shrieks and the reminders that for other people, life continued on outside.

He didn't want to move. He never did. He hadn't wanted to move out when he graduated high school and he didn't want to move now, opting to fix his eyes on this scene and simply think.

He thought too much. At this point it was painful to remember all the things that he had pushed down, the colors of the painting harsh and glaring against his muted mind. Maybe that was why he liked the painting. It forced him to remember, to dredge up the things that he would have liked to keep buried underneath the mattress his limbs were so lazily splayed upon.

He thought too much about his brother. Incidentally, it was he who had painted that ticking time bomb on his wall, a gift to Lovino on the day he had moved out. The colors that his little brother, all caramel hair and dewy eyes, had chosen had fitted the one who came bearing the gifts but initially repulsed the one receiving.

He cocked his head to the side, still leaning back into the thin pillow. When he was younger he would indulge himself in fantasies of being like his brother. Insecurity ran deep in Lovino's veins; he would catch himself imagining scenes in his mind where he reacted like his brother, where he accepted love and everyone smiled at him and wanted to hold his hand and just… wanted to be near him.

And imagine he did. In his mind he could be in heaps of trouble, but with a bat of eyelashes and a confident grin he could charm his way out of anything.

It felt twisted to Lovino. Admiring someone that much, wanting to be them felt wrong. It was never an outright desire, to take his brother's place in the hearts of those who loved the sweet caramel haired boy, but in his stomach it was always there.

This admiration, if it could be called admiration, was pushed down, beaten by the tight coils in Lovino's mind that sought to bind Lovino's true spirit to his body, to crush his yearning to be better, to be the best. In truth, the pit in his stomach could never be satisfied.

Every time he saw his little brother he would go home and examine himself. What was so wrong with him, he wondered, that kept him from becoming as close to perfection as Feliciano had come? The mirror gave them the same response, although he considered himself tainted; he was simply a beautiful yet darker version of his brother.

Feliciano shone so brightly in Lovino's mind, a true actor of the stage. And while it was sick that Lovino should have to look up to him, the colors that created Lovino were not painted by a master; they were sloppily brushed by a child, vain and jealous, attempting to mirror perfection.

And at night, when the people outside the open window slowed and the painting on his wall was darkened by the thick black shadows cast by his body onto the wall, the thoughts would resurface. The early hours of the morning were always the worst: a mind weakened by sleep is always susceptible to the dark needs of the heart.

A bittersweet idea was planted in his mind. He shrugged his arms out from under his head and stood up slowly from the bed, the springs squeaking under his weight. The floorboards creaked as if to mimic the mattress as he stepped towards the wall.

He unhooked the painting from its spot, and slid it face down under his bed. He crawled into his covers, pulling them over his hair, and turned away from the barren space on his bedroom wall.


End file.
